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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27999291">amnesiac</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/eating_custardinbed/pseuds/eating_custardinbed'>eating_custardinbed</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Internet Made Me Write It [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>IT Crowd</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol, Amnesia, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Caring, Cute, Descriptions of self-harm, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, First Person, Fluff, Fluffy, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, In Love, Long, Long Shot, Love, M/M, Moss Whump, POV First Person, POV Roy, Self-Harm, Short Story, Smoking, Someone Give Roy a Hug, Temporary Amnesia, Triggers, Whump, looking after, request, roy's pov, themes of self-harm</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 19:09:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,956</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27999291</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/eating_custardinbed/pseuds/eating_custardinbed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>amnesiac [amˈniːzɪak] (noun): a person experiencing a partial or total loss of memory</i>
</p><p>or, Moss has amnesia and Roy is taking care of him</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Maurice Moss/Roy Trenneman</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Internet Made Me Write It [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1990789</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>amnesiac</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/space_violett/gifts">space_violett</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>this is another request from the wonderful @spaceviolett on tumblr. thank you my lovely!!!! i really hope you enjoy this :)</p><p>*if you are triggered my self-harm then i have marked this section out with this: <i><b>*TW*</b></i> so you can avoid it*</p><p>i apologise for any typos, i will go back at some point and correct them. please just let me know!!</p><p>remember, if you want to make a request, on the series description is the link to the prompts! love you all xx</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The call came through at 10:08 a.m. </p><p>They say 10:08 is supposed to be a happy time. Apparently it's something to do with the psychology used in the sale of expensive watches or some shit, but I've never been able to see it personally. Either way, I don't think I'll ever be able to see 10:08 as a happy time ever again. It's tainted. </p><p>It's weird, isn't it, the little things we remember? Why exactly I remember that it was 10:08 when I got the call I don't know, because nothing else actually <em>happened </em>until about twenty minutes later, but you could call it a "turning point", I guess? I don't know. I'm not very good with all this crap. </p><p>Anyway, like I said, I got the call at 10:08. It was a normal morning, pretty much, except Moss hadn't shown up for work. Normally he's the first one here in the office, but today he just... wasn't here. Of course I was worried. I'd been on the edge of picking up the phone and calling him, but just a couple of days before we'd had a conversation about how he felt like I was always treating him like he didn't know how to run his own life. Which, to be fair, he doesn't. Have you ever had to pick him up because he decided to walk around a 24-hour Tesco because he was bored and before he knew it was 3:00 a.m and he had no way to get home? No? Then I'm afraid you're not allowed to have an opinion in this matter. </p><p>Sorry, off topic, I know. </p><p>So, I was already tense when the phone rang. It was my mobile, not the office phone, so of course my panic immediately peaked. I grabbed my phone, choosing to ignore how my hands were shaking as I answered it after glancing at the caller ID. It wasn't Moss. Private number. </p><p>"Hello?" I said in my most polite phone voice. You never know who could be on the end of the phone, do you? </p><p>"Am I speaking to Mr Roy Trenneman?" the person on the other end of the line replied. I stiffened immediately. They sounded official. For a moment, I have to admit that my heart seized as I thought my student loans had finally caught up with me. I considered slamming the phone down and blocking the number, but my curiosity was mounting and I decided to keep going with it.</p><p>“You are,” I said, if a little cautiously. Then logic seemed to get the better of me. “Look, if you’re tryna sell me something, I’m not interested, okay?”</p><p>”I’m not trying to sell you anything,” the person on the other end of the phone said. “I’m calling about Maurice Moss. You’re his emergency contact, is that correct?” </p><p>Now my heart was really pumping. </p><p>“Um, y-yeah,” I stammered. </p><p>“He was in an accident this morning. Can you come to the hospital?” </p><p>I’d known it. All morning there had been a horrible sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, and now that feeling was coming to fruition. </p><p>“Yeah, of course,” I said. “Is he okay?” </p><p>“We can’t tell you that.” </p><p><em>Jesus, </em>I thought. </p><p>“What happened?” </p><p>“We can’t tell you that either.” There was a pause. “St Bartholomew’s hospital. How quickly can you get here?” </p><p>“Uh, twenty minutes?” This was a complete guesstimate of course. </p><p>“They’ll be someone waiting for you at reception. Be as quick as you can.” </p><p>I nodded dumbly, finding the words choked in my throat. There was a moment, and I thought that maybe I should say something, but by the time I’d opened my mouth to speak the person had already hung up and all that was there was beeping. Slowly I lowered my phone from my ear, trying to swallow down the nausea rising in my throat. I looked up from my desk. Jen was standing at her office door. She must have heard. </p><p>“It’s Moss, isn’t it?” she asked. Suddenly finding myself unable to speak, I nodded. “What is it? What happened?” </p><p>“They, um, they wouldn’t say,” I said. My voice was shaking. “Can I go?”</p><p>”God, yeah, of course,” Jen said quickly. I tried to smile at her in response, but I couldn’t make myself move in the right way to do so. She gave me a sympathetic look. I tried my best to ignore it. I don’t like sympathy at the best of times, and right then it was as unwelcome as ever. I gathered my things as quickly as I could, promising Jen that I would inform her of any developments before leaving the office. I considered calling Moss’ mother, of course I did, but I reasoned that the hospital probably would have already called her, and since they weren’t saying what had happened it could be nothing more than a stupid accident and a bit of glue. I didn’t want to worry her. Lord knows she worries about him too much as it is. </p><p>It did actually end up taking about twenty minutes to get to the hospital. Normally I would have marvelled and gloated about my superior knowledge of London’s roads, but the person who I usually marvel and gloat to was currently in said hospital, so it was fair to say that I was feeling more than a little subdued. Shaking myself, I went into the hospital. </p><p>Now, I know hospitals are meant to be busy, but this just took the biscuit. There were people everywhere, so many people that I couldn’t actually see the person who was supposed to be meeting me. I looked around frantically, the smell of hand sanitiser and bleach overwhelming me as people continued to slip past me, murmuring quiet apologies.</p><p>When I’d walked in, I’d spotted a nurse standing by a small coffee cart. She was young, younger than both Moss and I. More tired, too. At first I’d assumed that she was just on her break, but as the time went on and I became more and more panicked I began to entertain the possibility of going over to her and asking if she knew of someone, <em>anyone </em>who could help me. Before I could, however, she spotted me and walked over. </p><p>“Are you Roy?” she asked. I nodded, feeling a deep sense of relief but also a sinking feeling of dread. </p><p>“Yeah, sorry,” I said. She gave me a small smile, but it was superficial. It meant nothing. </p><p>“Come with me,” she said, her voice very authoritative. Too curious to find out what had happened (and too scared to say no) I did so as she led me through the hospital, through all number of corridors and staircases before we finally got to where we needed. It was a tucked-away room about four floors up, requiring a labyrinth of corridors to get to. </p><p>“There was a car accident,” the nurse said. She said it in such a blunt way that I had hardly any reaction at all except a nod of acknowledgment. My heart was pumping away in my chest and my mind was in overdrive thinking of the thousands, the <em>millions </em>of possible scenarios, but I did a damn good job of keeping the panic off my face. “It happened at about 8 o’clock this morning.”</p><p>”Why didn’t I find out before?” I said before I could stop myself. The nurse gave me a small look. </p><p>“Originally they took him to the A&amp;E at St George’s, but it soon became clear there was something else going and so they sent him here,” she said. She took a deep breath before standing aside from the door. I gave her an inquisitive look. She shook her head</p><p>”This is all very cryptic,” I said. She sighed, nodding. </p><p>“We’re hoping you’ll trigger a change,” she replied. “Please, go in.”</p><p>Every instinct was screaming at me to turn around, to get the <em>fuck </em>out of there whilst I still had the chance and the willpower to do it, but I knew that Moss needed me. As scary as this was for me, it was probably ten times as bad for him. He was the injured one, for Christ’s sake! No, I knew I had to suck this up. We may have only been dating for six or so months at the time, but I loved him (and still do love him) with all of my heart, and for <em>that </em>reason, I had to be there for him. Pushing my own uneasy feelings as far down as they would go, I took a deep breath and one last look at the nurse before going forward into the room. </p><p>The room was small. Very small, indeed: it reminded me of the box room in my parents’ bungalow. There weren’t any windows, only harsh artificial fluorescent lights. I winced in sympathy for my boyfriend. He hates fluorescent lights, finds them too noisy, and he has a penchant for having lots of windows and natural light in anywhere that isn’t the office or the computer room at our flat. Other than that it was a typical hospital room, or at least what I remembered a typical hospital room to be like at the time. </p><p>Moss was sat on the bed. He had a bandage around his arm, and plaster strips holding a cut on his forehead together. There were a few bruises, but other than that he appeared remarkably unharmed. His glasses were sellotaped together at the bridge, but they could be replaced. </p><p>“Moss!” I cried in almost relief, rushing forward. “Oh thank God, you’re alright. On-on the phone they wouldn’t tell me what was going on, and I thought you were in a coma or some shit— why didn’t you call me this morning if you needed a lift!? You know I’ll always—“</p><p>”Who are you?”</p><p>Those three words were all it took to shut me up. I stopped babbling almost immediately, and I couldn’t help but stare at him. He looked pretty much normal (save the cut on his forehead of course), but there was a blank, even somewhat childish, look in his eyes that wasn’t normally there. </p><p>“It... it’s me, Moss,” I said after a few moments of silence. My voice was shaking something horrible. I let out a nervous chuckle, shaking his arm gently. “C’mon, you know me!”</p><p>”No, I don’t,” he replied. He seemed very adamant about it. </p><p>“I’m sorry,” the nurse said from behind. She must have slipped in whilst I’d been occupied. I turned to her. “I was hoping you’d trigger some memories, but it hasn’t worked.”</p><p>”What’s going on?” I asked a little fearfully. I almost didn’t want her to answer. </p><p>“We think the accident may have caused some sort of traumatic brain injury,” she said. At the word <em>“traumatic”</em> my heart seized. She must have seen the look on my face as she then quickly said, “but don’t worry, traumatic doesn’t necessarily mean something awful. Even a concussion is classed as a traumatic brain injury.”</p><p>”So what does this mean for him?” I asked. </p><p>“We’re not sure yet,” she replied. At least she was truthful, I guess. “But at the moment, it seems like retrograde amnesia.”</p><p>”Retrograde?” I said, confused. </p><p>“The loss of past memories.”</p><p>I nodded. “Mr Moss?” the nurse said, raising her voice a little as she moved towards the bed. Moss perked up a bit at the sound of her voice, looking towards her. “Do you remember who I am?”</p><p>”Nurse Sally,” he said brightly. She smiled at him. </p><p>“That’s good,” she said as she reached for the clipboard sitting on the bedside table, perching herself at the end of the bed. “Can I ask you a few questions?” Moss nodded. “Okay, do you know where you are?”</p><p>”The hospital,” Moss answered. Nurse Sally noted this down. </p><p>“What year did you think it was when you woke up?”</p><p>There was a pause. </p><p>“1995,” Moss said. I shook my head, taking a step backwards. In 1995, Moss was seventeen. We weren’t even to meet for another six years or so! “But I’ve since been told that it’s 2015.” </p><p>“It’s good that you can remember that,” Sally said. “That means you can still make new memories, so your hippocampus should be relatively undamaged.”</p><p>”Has someone called my mum?” Moss asked suddenly. He sounded scared now, and it was the first time I had seen the fear he was feeling since I’d been there. “I’d really like my mum to be here.”</p><p>”We’ve got someone on it,” the nurse replied in a smoothing voice, with an underlying tone that definitely meant they did not have somebody <em>“on it”</em>. She gestured over to me. “This is Roy Trenneman. He’s your bo—“</p><p>She has been starting to say <em>"boyfriend"</em>, but I cut her off with an imploring shake of my head. According to Moss' mum, he was <em>not </em>at peace with his sexuality as a teenager and I thought that telling him that he had a boyfriend would tip him over the edge in his already fragile state. "Your friend. He's your, um, friend." </p><p>"Oh," Moss said. He sounded confused again. He turned to look at me, giving me the smile I recognised from when he had to be polite to higher-ups and new people. I couldn't help but feel my heart sink. I knew it wasn't his fault, but I missed the way he normally looked at me. The last time I'd seen that look was just the night before, but already I was missing it, craving for it. "Well, it's, er... it's nice to meet you, I suppose." </p><p>He held his hand out to me. Taking a deep breath in order to quash the tears I could feel welling in my eyes, I took it. "How long have we known each other?"</p><p>"Um, coming up on nearly fifteen years now," I said. His eyes widened a little. </p><p>"That's a while."</p><p>I shrugged. </p><p>"I guess."</p><p>"Where did we meet?" </p><p>"Work," I replied. I couldn't help but smile as I remembered that first day we met. We were still basically kids, barely a couple of years out of university, all young and fresh-faced. God, it feels a million years ago now. "We work in IT together." </p><p>"Oh, that's nice," he said. He sounded placid, but I could tell he was scared. I hated it, because there was nothing I could do to help. </p><p>"Do you want me to call your mum?" I asked. It was the least I could do, really. Looking relieved, he nodded. I forced myself to smile again as I turned to the nurse. "Is that okay?"</p><p>"Yeah, of course," she said. "Can I talk to you outside?" </p><p>I nodded, and we skedaddled out of there as quickly as possible. </p><p>"Is he going to get his memory back?" I demanded the second the door closed. The nurse gave me a small, pitying smile. </p><p>"We don't know," she replied gently. </p><p>That was too much for me. Bending my head, I put my hand over my eyes, letting out a long and slow breath. All I wanted was for the tears to flow, to let it all out before I had to go back in there, but for some reason they just wouldn’t come.</p><p>”So you’re telling me that my boyfriend might never remember me? Our friendship? Our <em>relationship</em>?” I asked as I looked up. My voice was trembling. </p><p>“Brain plasticity is incredible,” she said insistingly. “The brain can bounce back and fix itself in ways we don’t yet understand.” Here she stopped, and I just <em>knew </em>she was gearing up to give bad news. “But yes. Sometimes the memories don’t return.”</p><p>”I’m gonna call his mum,” I said quickly. I couldn’t let the stifling suffocating silence hang in the air for more than a few seconds. “Have you got any more tests for him?”</p><p>”We want to do an fMRI, a CT scan, an EEG and a sleep study,” she said. I arched an eyebrow.</p><p>“That’s a lot of tests.”</p><p>”We can never be too careful with brain injuries.”</p><p>”But you said—“</p><p>I cut myself off, sighing frustratedly. There was no point in trying to argue with it or question it: it wouldn’t change anything. “Okay, I’ll let his mum know.”</p><p>I won’t recount my phone call with Moss’ mum. It was long-winded and painful, with me trying desperately to comfort her over the phone as I explained the effects of the accident. Eventually we hung up as she entered the tube station, and I steeled myself before going back into the room. </p><p>“Hi,” I said gently as I shut the door behind me. Moss looked up from where he had been messing with his fingers on his lap. “Your mum’s on her way.”</p><p>”Thank you,” Moss replied quietly. I nodded. There was an awkward moment, and so of course I did what any modern-day person does: I pulled out my phone. </p><p>From the corner of my eye, I saw Moss stiffen. Glancing at my lock screen (a picture of us from the holiday we took in the summer) and reminding myself to change it as soon as possible lest he see it with a heavy heart, I looked back up at him. “What... is that?” he asked slowly.</p><p>Of course. I’d forgotten that in his mind it was still 1995. </p><p>“It’s a mobile phone,” I said. “You can call people and message them and access the internet. You have one too. Pretty much everyone does. I’ll teach you how to use it when we get home.”</p><p>God, me teaching Moss something about computers. Who would have thought?</p><p>”We live together?”</p><p>”It’s a fairly new development.” This was true. We’d only been living together a month at the time. </p><p>“So we’re close, then?” he asked. I had to stifle a giggle. <em>We’re more than close, sunshine. </em></p><p>”You could say that, yeah?”</p><p>There was a pause, and then:</p><p>”I’m sorry that I don’t remember you.”</p><p>I have to say that that took me aback a little. I hadn’t been expecting it, and it was so normal, so purely <em>Moss </em>that it took me by surprise. Unable to do much but stare at him for a few moments after, I cleared my throat, looking down. </p><p>“‘S not your fault,” I said. </p><p>“But I—“</p><p>”Look, your mum’s going to be here in a minute,” I said, cutting him off. Rude, I know, but I knew I couldn’t take much more of this emotionally. I needed a break. “I’m gonna nip down and show her up here.”</p><p>”Are you going to come back...” he started to ask, but then he trailed off. “I’m sorry, what’s your name again?”</p><p>I could actually feel my heart breaking just a little bit more. I smiled at him.</p><p>”Roy,” I managed to choke out. ”Sure, if you want me too.”</p><p>Without waiting for an answer, I quickly turned on my heel and walked out of that room, out of the corridor, out of the hospital altogether. </p><p>When I was a teenager, I picked up the bad habit of smoking. Everyone was doing it at the time, and I only tended to do it socially, but I still didn’t stop completely until it was becoming financially unviable during my last year of university. As I stood outside that hospital, though, a cold wind whipping through the courtyard area and forcing me to pull my jacket tighter around myself, I found myself craving a hit of nicotine. I spotted a guy smoking, leaning against the wall. Normally I wouldn’t have gone over, but I was desperate. </p><p>“Have you got a smoke, mate?” I asked as I approached. He turned to look at me, and then nodded. He reached into his pocket, offering the packet to me. I took one gratefully, and lit it with his pre-offered lighter. As soon as I took a drag, I remembered exactly why I had given them up, but somehow it felt comforting. “Thanks,” I said.</p><p>”No problem,” he said. We stood in silence for a few minutes, smoking together and watching the world go by. “Who are you here for?” he asked eventually. </p><p>“My friend,” I said. I tend not to say Moss to be my boyfriend to people I don’t know, especially ones who I’d just had a cigarette off outside a hospital. “Car accident.”</p><p>”Sorry,” he said. </p><p>“What about you?”</p><p>”My old man,” he replied. I winced, murmuring a small apology to him for reasons unbeknownst to me. He chuckled dryly, shaking his head as he took a long drag of his cigarette. “Don’t be sorry. He’s a bastard.”</p><p>”Oh,” I said quietly. I didn’t really know what else <em>to </em>say. </p><p>“What about your friend, then? Is he going to be okay?”</p><p>It was my turn to chuckle now, except my chuckle was full of pain. I stubbed the cigarette out on the wall, letting out one last breath of cigarette smoke. </p><p>“Don’t know,” I said. “He’s got amnesia. Doesn’t have a bloody clue who I am.”</p><p>The man winced. He reached over, clapping me on the shoulder. It was comforting, in a way. He gave him a small smile, but then I spotted Moss’ mum walking up the path. “Look, I’ve got to go,” I said. “Thank you for the cigarette.”</p><p>”Anytime,” he said, raising his hand to me. </p><p>On the way back into the hospital, I made sure to pick up a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. Lord knew I’d been needing them. </p><p>***</p><p>After this, the rest of the hospital visit was fairly uneventful. I could tell that Moss relaxed considerably as soon as his mum walked into the room, although it didn’t take her long to start getting on at him about road safety and not getting hit by cars. Considering that Moss considered himself to be seventeen, I thought he took it rather well, simply meekly saying “yes mum” every so often and nodding along with what she was saying. When I was seventeen, I would argue with anyone and anything who went against something I did. Moss is different, though, I guess. He’s always been so different in such a perfect way. </p><p>There were a lot of tests. I ended up sleeping curled up on an uncomfortable chair that night, not wanting to leave in case something happened during the night. Nothing did, and so I woke up the next morning with a horrible ache in my back and a head full of regret. Nothing I haven’t experienced before. Moss was still asleep, curled up on the bed. The electrodes that had been connected to him were all gone, so people must have been in. I groaned quietly as I stretched out on the chair. His mum had gone home the night before, saying that she would come back the next morning. </p><p>Apparently they were thinking about sending him home that day. As the nurse (a different one to the person who had greeted me the day before) had told me late last night, if they couldn’t find anything seriously wrong there wasn’t much they could do. They would keep an eye on him, obviously, and there would apparently be weekly visits to the neurology department of the hospital, but other than that all we could do was hope his brain fixed itself. To me it seemed like too much of a chance to take, but if there’s nothing to be done, there’s nothing to be done. You just have to deal with it. </p><p>Shockingly the two of us had never discussed what we would do if something like this ever happened. Sure, we’re both clumsy and accident-prone, but our standard accidents never have any long-lasting effects other than maybe a scar or too. Now Moss could be permanently living with fifteen years of his life missing. How was I supposed to explain it to him? Not only that, but I had the added problem of trying to tell him about our relationship. Would he want to continue it? Would he want out? I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have Moss, and at the time the thought of losing him was daunting. Could I handle it? Honestly, I wasn’t sure if I could. </p><p>He awoke at around eight, and murmured a quiet “good morning” to me. My hopes rose, thinking he recognised me and remembered our history, but of course he didn’t. We made awkward small talk for half an hour or so until a doctor arrived, looking very official with a long white lab coat and a clipboard. Behind him was a gaggle of med students. </p><p>“Good morning,” the doctor said, coming forward. “Do you remember me?”</p><p>”You came in yesterday,” Moss said. I shrugged. He must have been there before I got there. The doctor smiled, nodding.</p><p>”Can you remember the year?”</p><p>”2015.”</p><p>”That’s really good,” the doctor replied encouragingly. “Now, do you remember the accident that brought you here?” </p><p>At this, Moss shook his head. </p><p>“I remember going to bed after college the night before last,” he said. “The next thing I knew, I woke up in the hospital and apparently I’ve been hit by a car and I’m twenty years older.” </p><p>“But you can remember everything that’s happened since you woke up?” the doctor asked. Moss nodded. The medical students all noted something down, and the doctor turned to them. “This is probably the purest case of retrograde amnesia you’re ever going to see,” he said, addressing the students now. “Take notes.” </p><p>“I’m sorry, he’s not some sort of exhibit,” I said hotly. I know I shouldn’t have said it, but the way the doctor so dismissively talked about him, treating him like an oddity in a museum to a group of students, caused a white-hot anger to rise within me. The doctor turned to look at me, his lip curling a little as he looked me up and down. God, I could have flattened him there and then, but reasoned that it wasn’t worth getting kicked out of the hospital for. </p><p>“Ah yes, the nurse said you might be protective over him,” the doctor said. His voice had changed, now dismissive and pretentious. I could feel my hand curling into a fist at my side. </p><p>“I’m going out for a smoke,” I said through gritted teeth, in the biggest show of self-control from anyone ever I think. The doctor rolled his eyes at me. </p><p>“You should really quit those, you know,” he replied. </p><p>“I did before this.”</p><p>I walked out before he could say anything more to annoy me. </p><p>You’d think that having grown up as the youngest of four, I would have learned how to deal with frustrating people. It’s not a skill I ever seemed to have been able to acquire. People like that, who think they’re better than everyone else, especially get on my nerves. As I stood outside once again, hating myself as I smoked a cigarette that I knew was doing me no good, I reflected on how this was going. I had let Jen know, given that this meant neither of us were going to be at work for a week or so. She hadn't been too happy, but had understood. She too was more than a little upset that Moss wasn’t going to know who she was when he saw her, but at least she had a bit of warning! I stamped the butt of the cigarette down on the ground with the heel of my trainers, sighing heavily as I leaned down to pick it up. </p><p>“Hey, how’s your friend?”</p><p>It was the guy that had given me the cigarette the day before. I straightened up, unable to even fake a smile as I raised my hand to him. </p><p>“Still doesn’t remember me,” I said. He made a sympathetic face as he leaned back against the wall. “What about your dad?”</p><p>”Dying,” he replied. “Cancer.”</p><p>”I’m sorry.” </p><p>“Seriously, don’t be,” he said. I nodded, but it felt strange. “He’s a horrible bigoted man who made my and many other people’s lives hell. I’m just here to sort out the paperwork.”</p><p>”Can I admit something to you?” I found myself saying. The man nodded. “He’s not my friend. He’s my boyfriend.” </p><p>“And he doesn’t remember you?” he asked. I shook my head. “Man, that’s even worse.”</p><p>”He doesn’t even really know he’s gay, in his head,” I replied. “He thinks he’s seventeen, and according to his mum he was in a lot of denial back then.” </p><p>“I’m sorry, mate,” the man said. I couldn’t help but laugh a little dryly. </p><p>“I’m sorry, I don’t even know why I’m telling you all this stuff.”</p><p>The man shrugged.</p><p>”They do say it’s easier to talk to someone who doesn’t know all your personal circumstances.”</p><p>”I guess.”</p><p>We smiled at each other. Then I sighed, looking up to the sky. It was grey, threatening rain. “I’ve gotta go,” I said. </p><p>“Good luck,” the man said. I smiled at him then. </p><p>“Thanks, mate.”</p><p>After this we parted ways, and I headed back upstairs to Moss’ room. I grabbed a much-needed coffee on the way up, and once the caffeine started to hit I found myself feeling a little better. Before I could go into the room, though, someone caught my arm. It was the doctor from before. Instantly my mood dropped. </p><p>“Take him home,” was all he said. </p><p>“Is that it?” I asked in disbelief. “Just ‘take him home’? No suggestions on what to do? No support?”</p><p>”Look, there’s nothing we can do for him,” he said. “The scans and tests showed no abnormalities, so whatever is going on is going on deep down where we can’t affect it.” He stopped to adjust his coat, shrugging a little. “If nothing happens, bring him back in a month.”</p><p>”And if something does?”</p><p>“If it’s bad, bring him to A&amp;E and tell them his name.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a card and held it out to me. I resisted the petty urge to snatch it out of his hand. “If his memories come back, ring me. I’d love to write a paper on his case.”</p><p>”He’s not some oddity for you to goggle at,” I snarled. Despite this, I pocketed the card. Casting one last glare at the doctor, I pushed past him to go into the room. </p><p>Moss was already dressed in the spare clothes his mum had brought him the day before. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, turning his phone over and over in his hand. He seemed fascinated by it. It was the newest iPhone out at the time that he had. </p><p>“You can unlock it with your fingerprint!” he said to me excitedly when he saw me. Laughing, I nodded. </p><p>“Yeah,” I said. Then I looked away. “Hey, they’ve said you can go, so we’re going to head home.” </p><p>He nodded. He jumped up off the bed, grabbing his backpack (it was the same one, after all, just kept in pristine condition over all those years) and coming over to the door. He stood aside to let me go first. I forced myself to smile at him as I went out of the room. </p><p>The doctor was nowhere to be seen, and I couldn’t help but be thankful for it. </p><p>***</p><p>”What’s a ‘<em>Nan-dos</em>’?” </p><p>I had to stifle my giggle at this. We were walking down the street, having to walk to my car at the closest multi-story because I refused to pay the extortionate amount they charge at the hospital. </p><p>“Nan-<em>does</em>,” I corrected gently. I watched him as he softly mouthed the word to himself, looking intently at the sign. “It’s a restaurant that literally just serves chicken. You always make fun of me because I won’t eat the spicy one when we go there on da--" </p><p>I’d been about to say “<em>dates” </em>when I stopped myself. No. It was too soon and too sensitive an issue to bring up now. </p><p>"On what?" Moss asked. I shook my head. </p><p>"Days off," I said. It was painful, but it had to be done, and luckily Moss took my answer at face value. </p><p>"Everything's very different," he said thoughtfully. </p><p>"Hm?" I replied. I was watching him carefully, making sure he didn't accidentally walk into anyone or anything. </p><p>"I mean, from what I remember," he continued. He pointed to a random coffee shop. "Like, that never used to be there. And the roads were quieter, too."</p><p>"Huh," I replied. I wasn't too sure what to say, but I had to show that I was listening somehow, didn't I? My mind was starting to wander as I considered a few possibilities of what would happen now. When were we going to go back to work? Thank God the spare room was set up, because I don't think I'd have known how to explain away the fact that there was only one bed. I knew I was going to be lonely that night. </p><p>As Moss continued to babble away, I did my best to respond to any questions he had. The majority of them seemed to be about the development in technology, which luckily I was able to answer fairly easily. He continued talking all the way back in the car, too, but I was able to filter a lot of it out as I was driving. </p><p>Normally when we get home from somewhere, Moss will make a beeline for the bedroom, where he will throw off his work clothes and immediately get himself into his comfiest onesie (usually his Star Wars one). However when we came in Moss stopped in the doorway, seemingly confused. </p><p>"The bedroom is second on the left on the hallway," I said softly. I could survive in the spare room for a while. He nodded at me before shooting off down the corridor. I sighed, leaning back against the door. I could already tell that it was going to be a long few days. </p><p>At least, I hoped it would only last a few days. </p><p>***</p><p>Comfortingly, when Moss came back into the room he was wearing his favourite onesie, despite it only being midday. I smiled at him from where I was sitting on the sofa, gesturing for him to join me. He did so. There was a moment of silence. </p><p>“Can you tell me about my life?” he asked quietly. </p><p>This took me aback. A million things ran through my head, hundreds of stories that I could spend countless hours recounting, but I knew that it would probably be better to keep this short and sweet. </p><p>“Well, you went to Cambridge,” I said. I revelled in the way his eyes widened and a smile grew on his face. I grinned back at him. “Graduated with a first in IT and Computer Sciences. Then a couple of years later we both started working at Reynholm Industries, which is how we met. We both still work there. There’s this woman we work with called Jen, and she’s lovely but she lied on her CV and got stuck with us despite knowing nothing about IT. She’s our relationship manager.” </p><p>“Relationship manager?” he asked. I took a moment to think about how to explain this. </p><p>“Bit like our personal HR person.” </p><p>He made a face, but then took a minute to think this over and nodded. </p><p>“Are you okay?” I asked.</p><p>There was a moment. Moss was looking off to the side of me, his eyes focused on the wall in the same way he used to do when we first knew each other and he wasn’t quite comfortable with me yet. I bit my lip. I was unsure if I was going to receive an answer.</p><p>"I think so," he said eventually. He sighed a little, shifting to sit with his legs crossed beneath him. "I'm very confused, but I think that's just normal under the circumstances."</p><p>"Yeah, yeah," I replied. Once again there was that horrible awkward silence we'd been experiencing for the past couple of days. "Look, I just want you to know that... I'm here for you. If you need me." </p><p>"Why are you being so nice to me?" Moss asked. I stared at him for a moment. </p><p>"Well..." I started, but I suddenly found myself struggling for words. There was so much I wanted to say, but like I always found in every important moment in my life I had no idea how to verbally express myself. The idea of kissing him flitted across my mind, but I quickly pushed this away. Unconsciously I reached forward, taking his hand in mine as my voice dropped a little. "You're my best friend, Moss. You've helped me through so much stuff that I don't think I'd have been able to get through otherwise, and I think the least I can do is help you through this." </p><p>"We're really friends?" he asked. Honestly, it felt like every time he opened his mouth, he said something that made me just want to hold him close and hug him even more than ever. I nodded at him. </p><p>"Of course we are," I answered. "Why would you even ask?" </p><p>"It's just, I don't really have many friends, in my memory," he said. </p><p>"Moss, you're literally one of the most well-liked people I know," I said. "Everyone loves you."</p><p>"Even girls?" he asked quietly. And now my heart dropped into my feet. I'd known it was going to come at some point, but I hadn't expected it so soon. </p><p>"Yeah, even girls," I said. It wasn't like it was untrue, I guess. </p><p>The smile on his face broke my heart even more, because I knew that someday it would be proven untrue. </p><p>***</p><p>There was no change for a whole month. </p><p>I think I have to say that it was easily the worst month of my life. And that includes the month I spent fucking a psycho girl in university. At least I got some kicks out of that. No, for a month I had to live with Moss whist he tried to understand his new life here in 2015. And do you know what he did. Do you know what he did?</p><p>He only went and got a fucking girlfriend, didn't he?</p><p>Now, some people said that I should have stopped him, should have somehow sabotaged the relationship before it even got started. The thing was, I'd of course thought about it when he first told me that he'd got talking to this girl (someone who he'd met in a coffee shop on the way to work about a week after the accident), but when I saw how happy he looked I couldn't bring myself to do it. </p><p>My smoking habit had only gotten worse. I was drinking more too, so much that rather too many times Moss had found me in a near-comatose state in the front room late at night. I knew it was bad, but I didn't know how else to deal with it. I'd gotten into worse habits as a young adult, ones that had nearly landed me in hospital or at the very least a walk-in centre too many times. I still bear the scars of those on my wrists and thighs. No, it wasn't exactly going <em>well, </em>was it? </p><p>One night, after Moss had had his girlfriend over (and there had been <em>far </em>too much loud romantic music for my liking) he came into the living room after showing her out with a very pleased look on his face. Swallowing the last of the whiskey in my glass, I did my best not to make a snide comment or roll my eyes. </p><p>“How was Mary, then?” I instead asked. </p><p>“She was very well, thank you,” he said with a stupid grin plastered on his face. Ugh, that grin. It was a grin that I loved, but <em>not </em>when I hadn’t put it there. God, I had to let him know, <em>somehow, </em>that I was... y’know, available. Like that. </p><p>“Hey, I, uh, I might be having someone ‘round later,” I said, leaning back against the sofa. “A guy.”</p><p>As he sat down, Moss gave me a look. </p><p>“Okay,” he said. “Why are you telling me?”</p><p>I sighed, throwing my head back. I wasn’t actually planning on having anyone round, but it was the only way I could think of telling him without actually having to say the words. </p><p>“I just thought it’d be... y’know, polite to let you know,” I said. </p><p>“I don’t see how.”</p><p>”Common courtesy, isn’t it?”</p><p>”Common courtesy?”</p><p>”For Christ’s sake, I’m having a guy around for sex, Moss!” I yelled before I could stop myself. </p><p>We stared at each other for a moment. I can’t speak for Moss, but I know that my own breathing was starting to speed up a bit. </p><p>“Oh,” he said. He shifted on the sofa. “Well, um... is it for definite?”</p><p>I shrugged, feeling my cheeks burning. </p><p>“Maybe, maybe not,” I said. At least I gave myself an out when no-one appeared. </p><p>“So you’re gay?”</p><p>”Bisexual.” On my list of uncomfortable conversations, this one was quickly rising up the ranks. I think only my dad attempting to have The Talk with me when I was twelve years old was worse. “You okay with that?”</p><p>”Of course,” Moss said quickly. He gave me a small smile, and I just about managed one back. “So do you have a boyfriend, girlfriend...?” </p><p><em>Yes, yes, you! </em>I wanted to cry, but I forced myself to shake my head. </p><p>“Not yet.”</p><p>”You’ll find someone.”</p><p>That sentence alone was enough to make me want to cry. </p><p>After this, Moss bid me goodnight and headed off to bed. As I cracked another beer open, I tried to push down the wave of self-loathing that was starting to wash over me. It seemed to fast be becoming one of those days where almost every thought I had was focused on self-destruction. I wanted to light a cigarette, but decided not to. I didn’t know what I’d do to myself with the burning end.</p><p>“You need to get some fucking help,” I murmured to myself as I took another sip of beer. These were the exact words Jen had spoken to me in a fit of rage earlier that day. At the time I hadn’t been sleeping, I’d hardly been eating, and I was quickly falling back into old self-destructive habits. Jen was pushing me to tell Moss about us, so that this would just be over, but I steadfast refused, adamant that his memories would come back. Even so, I knew with each passing day that it was getting more and more unlikely. </p><p>At least, until Moss let out a short scream and came barrelling into the living room. </p><p>“I can remember university!” he shouted before I could ask him what had happened.</p><p>”Oh my God!” I exclaimed as I jumped up, rushing towards him a little clumsily. I grabbed him by the shoulders. “What’s the last thing you remember now?”</p><p>”My last day of university, when I left,” he replied. Then he blushed, looking down. “I had some... um... <em>experiences, </em>didn’t I?”</p><p>Ah, yes. Moss had told me about some of these late one night, when we’d been talking about that sort of stuff. It’s not a conversation to be relayed to other people, I don’t think. </p><p>“Yeah,” I said with a slightly goofy grin of my face. </p><p>“I think I have to break up with Mary.”</p><p>”Yeah, me too.”</p><p>”Why didn’t you tell me that I’m gay?” he asked. Now it was my turn to look down at the floor. </p><p>“Um...” I stammered. “Uh, I didn’t think it was my, er, my place to tell you. I’d hoped you’d remember.”</p><p>”And what if I hadn’t?” he asked. I shook my head, swallowing down the sudden wave of nausea. Maybe it was the alcohol. Yeah, probably. I shrugged. </p><p>“I dunno,” I mumbled. </p><p>I thought that maybe Moss was going to say something, but then he dropped it and I knew that I couldn’t say any more. </p><p>***</p><p>With each passing day, it seemed like Moss was remembering more and more. Each morning he’d wake up and tell me something else he’d remembered. It was usually silly stuff, like that he’d bought a new shirt or he remembered his mum making a new type of food, but the day where he came in and said, “You were wearing a red shirt on the day we met,” is something I will treasure for the rest of my life. </p><p>As Moss got better, it seemed that I did too. My drinking cut down, and whilst the cigarettes weren’t quite as easy to bin, I was definitely smoking far less of them than I was before. I knew I was coming back from a very dark place, and couldn’t help but wonder that the Moss that was trapped in lost memories, <em>my Moss, </em>knew and was proud of me.</p><p>It was a normal day when it happened. Arguably no days had been normal since the accident, but it was as normal as it could be. We’d been at work, and Moss had been taking a nap on the sofa: ever since the accident, another thing I’d noticed it that he’d been more sleepy than before. I hadn’t been paying too much attention. </p><p>“We kissed in Amsterdam.”</p><p>His voice was quiet and soft. I looked up from my computer in shock, staring at him. He wasn’t lying, far from it, but I just hadn’t expected him to remember this so soon after his fist lot of memories returning. I opened my mouth to say something to him. </p><p>“Um...” was all that came out. </p><p>“We were drunk,” he said. His voice was careful and measured as he sat up properly. “We’d hired prostitutes—“</p><p>”You remember that?” I exclaimed. He gave me a cheeky smile. </p><p>“How could I forget?” he said with a grin. I tilted my head to the side, giving him an acknowledging look. “Anyway, so we had hired prostitutes and we’d took them to the fair...”</p><p>At this point, I had stopped listening. I was too deep in my memories. </p><p>
  <em>The Holland night air was cold against my skin, despite the warmth my intoxication was providing. As Moss and I stumbled across the fairground, clutching our beers to our chests as we giggled, I couldn’t help but reflect on how beautiful my companion looked in the twinkling carnival lights. <br/></em>
</p><p>
  <em>We had left the prostitutes by the dogems. Whilst we hadn’t actually done anything “like that” with them, they had provided a good laugh for the evening and had only charged us half of the already fairly cheap rate. I slung my arms around Moss’ shoulders, mainly to stop myself falling over, but I revelled in the warm feeling that ran through my chest when I did. <br/></em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Can we go on the Ferris wheel?” Moss asked. Turning to look at him, I nodded, a smile on my face. <br/></em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Sure!” I shouted over the music from the nearby waltzers. <br/></em>
</p><p>
  <em>We somehow made our way over to the Ferris wheel without falling over, and Moss got settled in the seat whilst I clumsily paid the grumpy-looking old man who was manning the wheel that night. I sat down, the man put the lap bar down and away we went into the stars. <br/></em>
</p><p>
  <em>“This is the drunkest I’ve ever been,” Moss proclaimed as we rose up in what, looking back, was far too jerky a fashion to be safe. I giggled, watching him with a somewhat lovesick expression on my face. <br/></em>
</p><p><em>“I bet,” I said. We giggled together. At that moment, we reached the top and the wheel drew to a close with a horrible </em>screeeeeech<em>. Moss turned to me, a smile on his face. <br/></em></p><p>
  <em>“Thank you bringing me here,” he said. He sounded incredibly sincere, as if someone had sobered him up for a moment. I couldn’t help but smile at him. <br/></em>
</p><p>
  <em>“It’s no problem,” I said. “But Moss?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>”Yeah?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I reached forward, gently grasping either side of his head with my hands. Laughing, I moved his head from side to side, watching him as I did so. His eyes were following me, and he was grinning. <br/></em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You can’t tell anyone about the same prostitutes!” <br/></em>
</p><p>
  <em>I was in the middle of laughing and I thought he was too, when all of a sudden he reached up and gently caught my wrists. I fell still. Before I could react or ask him what was happening, he moved one hand up to rest of my cheek, leaned forward and kissed me softly. <br/></em>
</p><p>“It would have been quite romantic,” Moss said, snapping me out of my trance. I made a small noise, looking back over to him. “If not for the drunkenness, and, well...” </p><p>“The prostitutes,” we said in unison. Moss laughed softly, looking down at his feet and then back up at me. It was almost flirty. It might have been if it hadn’t been Moss, as Moss has very little idea on how to knowingly flirt. To me, it was simply adorable. I smiled at him. </p><p>“Some might have even called it meaningful,” Moss said a little sadly. </p><p>Before I could reply, he had already laid back down and was drifting off to sleep. </p><p>***</p><p>Another month quickly passed, and I hadn’t even realised until Jen had informed me one morning that it had been two months to the day since I had gotten that fateful phone call. Now, however, Moss’ recall of his memories was starting to slow down. Instead of something new every day, it was something new every few days, or, more recently, something new once a week. I’d been on the phone to that neurologist at the hospital, the one who had given me his card, and he was insisting that we wait another month or so to see if anything else returned before jumping to any conclusions. At that time, his last memory before the accident was of something stupid that had happened back in 2014. It was getting closer, but it still wasn’t back at where it needed to be. </p><p>It had been my birthday in that month. Before the accident (which happened all the way back in the middle of September) Moss had been teasing me, saying that he was going to do something so incredible that I would be worshipping the ground he walked on until Christmas. Every time he had brought it up I’d rolled my eyes and pretended like it was no big deal, but deep down I was so excited to find out what it was, like a child on Christmas Day: which is exactly what he wanted, I bet. Thing was, he’d forgotten, hadn’t he? He knew when my birthday was, I think, but as he still had a few memory problems (namely remembering details like dates and such) I doubted he’d actually remember. My plan had been to not mention it, and just get the blasted day over with. Unfortunately Jen had told him when it was, so I had woken up to a card and a small gift. </p><p>It wasn’t what he’d been planning, I knew it, and it broke me. </p><p>Throughout the day, I could feel my mood dropping lower and lower. Eventually it all got too much, and I knew I needed a release. My mind, strangely enough, flitted to my mother, her plea to me when she had found out before, but I shoved it out of my mind as I made my way to the bathroom. Moss was watching telly in <strike>his</strike> <em>our </em>room, he wouldn’t notice. I locked the door behind me. </p><p>Or I thought I had. </p><p><em><strong>*TW* </strong></em>I sat on the edge of the bath, trembling from head to foot. Part of me wanted to climb into the bath and sit there with the shower on, but as I didn't want to explain to Moss why I had a sopping wet t-shirt I decided against it. I clenched my hands into fists on my thighs, letting out a shaky breath as I screwed my eyes shut. <em>Only once, </em>I told myself sternly. I'd told myself that before, too, but I was choosing to ignore that at the time. </p><p>The razor was sitting on the side of the bath, glinting away at me. I hated it, I truly truly hated it, but it was irresistible. It called to me, drew me towards it with an overwhelmingly strong pull that I just couldn't get away from. Almost like clockwork, I reached forward, taking the razor. <em>Just one little cut, </em>the tiny voice inside my head said. Its tone was almost sing-song, like it was mocking me because it knew, just <em>knew </em>that it was never just one. <em>It won't hurt. </em></p><p>In my mind I saw that as true, in a way. It did hurt, of course it did, but only for a little while. When I'm in that sort of headspace, I make myself believe all sorts of stupid untrue things. Quickly wiping away a tear that I didn't even realised had fallen, I balled one hand into a fist and turned my arm over, exposing my pale forearm. Under the bathroom light I could see the spidery silver scars from past "releases". That should have been enough to deter me, but for some reason it only spurred me on. </p><p>The first cut stung. It always does. The blood didn't flow straight away, it took a moment, but it inevitably made an appearance. I let out a small, quiet sob, wiping the tears away with the heel of my hand before looking away. In my mind, I considered myself a coward, unable to even look as I did this to myself. I have since been informed that I am not a coward and I do believe them, but sometimes I remain a little sceptical. I made another one, and after three or four I stopped feeling... well, <em>anything. </em>This is what I'd wanted, wasn't it? The self-loathing had only ramped up about a million times, but I was kidding myself into believing that it was going away. </p><p>The blood was starting to drip now, streaking down my arm and dripping onto the white tiles. <em>Great, </em>I thought to myself, <em>more clean-up. </em>I sighed, deciding to do one last one-- make it an even ten-- before calling it a night, going to bed and hating myself. I was halfway through it when--</p><p>"Roy! What are you doing!?" </p><p>Shit. That was Moss. His voice had made me jump and the razor had slid far, far too far across my forearm. Luckily I had released the pressure rather quickly, so it didn't go too deep, but it was still enough to make way more blood spill out than there had been before. "Oh my God," Moss whispered. I closed my eyes, looking down at my lap. </p><p>"Go away, Moss," I said quietly. "Let me sort this out." </p><p>"No," he said. He came forward, quickly grabbing the blood-stained razor out of my hand and throwing it far across the room, where I couldn't reach it. After this he gently wrapped his fingers around my wrists, with a tenderness that I'd almost forgotten he'd possessed. He turned my injured arm over, examining it carefully under the light. Then he sighed, getting up and leaving the room for a moment. I considered getting up and getting the razor, but all of a sudden I didn't have the energy. When Moss came back, he was carrying the little first aid kit we kept under the sink in the kitchen. </p><p>"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked as he took an antibacterial wipe and wiped away some of the blood from my arm. I winced as it caught one of the cuts, but stayed silent. He sighed again, and we were both quiet as he proceeded to clean away the blood and bandage my cuts. "You know I wouldn't judge you, right?" </p><p>"For fuck's sake, you <em>knew</em>!" I yelled. This had come very out of nowhere, and Moss reeled back a little. "You fucking knew, and you fucking..." I trailed off, letting out a sob as I bent my head. "You fucking forgot." </p><p>"I'm sorry," Moss replied quietly. That only made me feel worse. </p><p>"It's not your fault, is it?" I said. I wiped my eyes again, the bandage on my arm rubbing uncomfortably against my cheek. </p><p>"I--"</p><p>"Don't worry about it." </p><p>Before he could say anything else, I was out of the door.<em><strong>*TW*</strong></em></p><p>***</p><p>The next morning, I woke up to a lot of texts from my mother, which means Moss must have told her what happened. </p><p>I groaned, rolling over. Even after two months, I kept forgetting that I was in the spare room and so I rolled straight out of the single bed and right onto the floor. That hurt, I have to say, especially when I caught my bandaged arm underneath me. I let out a small yell, closing my eyes for a moment before opening them again and forcing myself to get up. I grabbed my phone, sending my mum a message back promising to call her later. I took a moment, staring at the horrible decor we had up in our spare room. Having spent two months in this room had confirmed to me that we <em>really </em>needed to redecorate it. I ran a hand over my face, shaking myself before leaving my room. </p><p>Moss was waiting for me outside. </p><p>"Jesus!" I exclaimed, jumping backwards as I clutched the doorframe. He gave me an apologetic look, and when he opened his mouth I just <em>knew </em>that he was about to apologise, so I cut him off with a shake of my head. "It's alright, don't worry about it." </p><p>Instead of responding, Moss just pushed me back against the doorframe and kissed me. </p><p>At first I melted into it, enjoying our first kiss in two months, but then I thought more about it. Hang on. Did this mean...?</p><p>"You remember?" I asked as I broke away. Moss smiled at me, nodding a little. </p><p>"Not all of it," he said softly. "Some of it's patchy. But I remember it. I remember <em>us</em>." </p><p>"I love you," I said. I had never meant it more than I had in that moment. "I love you <em>so </em>much." </p><p>"I love you too," he replied. I could have cried then, I really could have. Actually, I did. I couldn't help but bend my head, letting out a small sob. Moss reached forward, wrapping his arms around me. I did the same. We stayed like that for a little while longer, just holding each other in a way we hadn't done for far too long. Eventually, Moss broke away. "Why didn't you tell me?" he asked, his voice soft. I bit my lip, looking away. He raised his hand, resting it on my cheek tenderly. "You let me go out with that girl, you dealt with it all on your own... it even drove you back to... well, we don't need to go into that right now. But why?" </p><p>"It felt... wrong," I said. "You were so vulnerable without your memories, it felt like it would have been... I don't know, wrong to tell you. You needed to remember." </p><p>"And if I hadn't?" </p><p>"Then as long as you were happy, I wouldn't have minded." </p><p>He smiled. Leaning forward, he wrapped his arms around the back of my neck and leaned forward for another kiss. Smiling, I returned it. </p><p>I had my Moss back. For real this time. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thank you for reading!!! please leave comments and/or kudos, they make me so happy!!!</p><p>stay safe and happy, y'all xx</p></blockquote></div></div>
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